The Traynor Initiative
by LiveFastDieBeautiful21
Summary: Because the world needs more Shepard/Traynor. Small drabbles that will be updated in groups of three or four due to their short length, focusing on Shepard and Traynor's relationship and how it develops throughout the war. Prompts welcome.
1. Lavender

**A/N: **There is a severe lack of Shepard/Traynor, and I'm going to do my best to fix that. Since Traynor doesn't play a _huge_ role, it's been a bit difficult for me to really get a firm grasp on her character, so any feedback in regards to voice/personality is _extremely _appreciated.

It's probably also important to note that these are all very short, so I've decided to upload them in groups. Everything gets put on my tumblr when it's written (there's a link on my profile page), and will be put here once I've written a few. I'll be using the same Shepard throughout all the stories. I typically refer to her as simply "Shepard" but I think I call her Kira a few times as well.

Also, prompts and suggestions are welcome. If I get once, I'll probably upload it by itself instead of waiting to have a whole group finished. I'll stop talking now, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Lavender_.

Shepard rubbed her eyes and rolled over, not surprised to find the other side of the bed empty. The scent of the soap filled the entire cabin, stronger than Shepard remembered; she'd only used it once since Liara had given it to her. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she called out, "I see you found my fancy soap, Traynor?"

"Oh! That's not a problem, is it?" Traynor's voice was muffled, barely audible between the closed bathroom door and the running water. "I was just getting tired of that awful standard stuff. I saw this and thought I'd pamper myself a bit."

"You'll smell like lavender for a week," Shepard warned, reaching for her hoodie on the bedside table.

"That's not a problem, is it?" she repeated, more playfully this time.

Shepard just chuckled, leaning against the back of the bed and closing her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the last few minutes of peace before the day truly began. Though she hadn't ever admitted it, Shepard was glad that Traynor preferred early morning showers; waking up with someone cuddled close - even when that someone was Traynor - was unfamiliar, and almost awkward, for Shepard. It had been _so long_ since she'd been close with anyone. She'd lost her family when she was only sixteen, and it hadn't been until she'd met Ashley that she'd allowed herself to have a true friend.

And even then, she and Ash were _comrades_ before they were friends. Traynor, though? She'd quickly become Shepard's biggest motivation to keep fighting. After losing as many friends and comrades as Shepard had, it was nice to know she'd have someone to come home to, whether it was after the war or just after a mission.

A smile had crept onto Shepard's lips, and as she crossed the room, she tossed her hoodie onto the couch. "You know, Traynor," she mused, tugging the bathroom door open, "I could get used to the smell of lavender."


	2. Losses

**A/N:** This one wasn't originally intended to be a Shepard/Traynor piece (does this ship even have a name?); it was supposed to be Shepard being angry because all her friends are dead.

* * *

"Losing Thessia wasn't your fault."

"No, it wasn't, because we haven't _lost_ Thessia," Shepard insisted, her voice uncharacteristically loud, "just like we haven't lost Earth, or Palaven." She'd kept it together for the crew, and for Hackett and the councilor, but here in the safety of her cabin, with only Traynor by her side, Shepard's composure was beginning to slip. It wasn't the pressure of failing her mission, or seeing Liara so distraught, or even watching as Thessia burned.

It was how _alone_ she felt.

"Missions - and wars - aren't won or lost because of one person," she seethed, marching down the steps to her bed and pretending she didn't notice when Traynor reached out a hand. "Everything we're going to do is only possible because there are hundreds of thousands of people out there working together. That's how it's always been."

"Nobody's asking you to win this war alone—"

Before she could finish, Shepard silenced her with a wave of her hand and plopped down on her bed, ignoring the fact that she was still wearing her armor, covered in dirt and sweat and blood. "But they _are_. When you hear about Saren, you hear about how_Commander Shepard_ defeated him. _Commander Shepard_ took out the Collector base, and now _Commander Shepard_ is uniting the galaxy."

Traynor slowly sat next to Shepard, leaving a fair amount of room between them, and offered hesitantly, "You _are_ uniting the galaxy. And the crew - the _whole_ crew, comm specialist included," she added with a small smile, "are right behind you."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Shepard began again, her voice once again calm. "Did you ever hear about the time on Feros that I got knocked out cold by one of the geth, and Kaidan carried me back to the Normandy? Tali covered him the whole way, and took a pretty bad shot to the leg that gave her a nasty infection. Or," she continued, her gaze locked on the closed cabin door, "about the time we picked up Garrus on Omega? He was bleeding all over the floor, Zaeed and I were out of ammo, and Miranda took out a _gunship_ with a pistol and some fancy biotics."

"I—no," Traynor admitted, "I've never heard those stories."

"They're all dead," Shepard continued, her words barely more than a whisper. "Kaidan and Tali and Zaeed and Miranda. And now, Thane and Samara and Mordin and Legion are gone." She paused, reaching over to take one of Traynor's hands. "There are days that I don't care if we lose every planet out there," she confessed, "but if I lose one more soldier under my command…"

"You won't." When Traynor gave Shepard's hand a reassuring squeeze, she couldn't feel it through the thick material of her gloves; instead, she saw it as her eyes lit up with hope and the corners of her lips crept up into a small half-smile. "Because you're going to save the galaxy, then we're going to spend a long, _long_ time on a nice vacation and treat ourselves to expensive drinks."

"Yeah." Shepard knew it wouldn't be that simple, but they'd get there; they deserved it.


	3. Ice Cream

**A/N: **This one is especially short. I had an ice cream prompt, and felt it would fit with Kira. She's not very romantic, but she tries. Also, this takes place _right_ after the Citadel coup.

_Right _after. Like I said, Kira's not very romantic.

Anyway, this is the end of my first grouping of drabbles. Hope you enjoyed! The next group should be up within a week or two, considering I can't stop writing about these two.

* * *

"Chocolate?"

Kira cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows furrowing in question as she sat across from Traynor. "I can't like chocolate ice cream?"

Traynor shrugged, poking at her own caramel-covered vanilla ice cream with her spoon. "I just always figured you'd for something more… I don't know, exciting."

Taking a small, thoughtful bite, Kira muttered, "Why?"

"No reason. It just—chocolate seems a bit _normal_ for Commander Shepard."

Picking up the small bowl and leaning back in her seat, Kira mused, "If we were back on Earth—or back when I lived on Mindoir—I would've gotten cookies and cream with chocolate syrup and nuts on top. But we're in the middle of a Reaper invasion. Maybe I wanted something _normal_."

"_Right_," Traynor smirked, "and what about me? On a date with a living legend, outside a ruined ice cream shop, after watching you shoot a man's head off from a mile away and almost single-handedly stop a Cerberus coup."

"A mile away? It was barely fifty meters. And I had plenty of help. _And_ it's not—" Kira paused, taking another look at the part of the Citadel they were on; shattered glass and ejected thermal clips littered the courtyard, and the ice cream shop they'd "visited" was covered in scorch marks. "Okay," she conceded, "the shop's ruined."

"And what about that says _normal_ to you?"

"All things considered, this has been a relatively uneventful day." Grabbing her sniper rifle from the seat next to her, Kira stood, holding a hand out to pull Traynor up too. "You're with me, now, and I've got a very different definition of normal."

"Can we at least agree _not_ to make run-ins with assassins part of that definition?"

"No promises."


	4. Hopeless

**A/N: **I've been stuck on domestic fics here lately, so the next round is all post-war Kira/Traynor being cute together in their apartment. There's three fics that all go together, but I'm still tweaking the last one so once that's done, I'll post all of them here; it should be later tonight, or tomorrow at the latest.

To hold you over (since it's been a bit longer that I anticipated), here's a Citadel-inspired piece. Kira's not the type to willingly throw a party, and if she did she'd spend most of it locked in her room working on a gun or omni-tool.

And this is the part where I _beg_ for feedback. I _really _want to do this pairing justice, so any suggestions/criticisms are _extremely _helpful!

* * *

Give her a malfunctioning gun and she'd have it fixed in an hour, more accurate and efficient than before. Or, point her to a military-grade training course and she'd be through all the obstacles even before her tactical cloak wore off.

But invite her to a party, and Kira Shepard was stumped.

She'd spent nearly an hour on the Normandy, staring at every single piece of clothing she owned, which, admittedly wasn't much; besides her favored armor set and a few pieces that rarely saw time on the battlefield, she had various Alliance uniforms, an old N7 t-shirt she used for training and workouts, a dress that didn't fit and she wasn't even sure when she picked it up, and her favorite red jacket that she always wore when she was off-duty. None of these, according to Traynor, were acceptable for a party, so Shepard had sent her off with her credit chit and told her to go shopping for the both of them while she tidied up around the apartment.

There wasn't much to do, really. Liara had left Glyph behind to help with preparations — everyone seemed to know how helpless she was when it came to things like parties — so Shepard spent most of the time alone making small adjustments to get the apartment just how she liked it. She changed out the bedsheets, bought a new set of toiletries to keep on the Citadel, and rearranged a few things in the kitchen so it was less cluttered.

Afterwards, she tinkered with her pistol; she'd left her rifle aboard the Normandy, and she was positive that she could find a way to increase the efficiency of the thermal clips. Before long, she headed back to the Normandy to grab some spare tools and parts from her cabin, and when she returned she found Traynor waiting for her.

"You've got a full closet now," she informed her, a bit sheepishly, and quickly added, "Some of it's mine, but most of it's for you. I figured you needed more clothes that don't scream _I'll shoot your head off from a mile away_."

Setting everything down on the counter, Shepard sighed, "Not a mile away." She rolled her eyes, but hadn't missed Traynor's little smirk. She _did_ have a point, though; Shepard always seemed to be a living illustration of the Alliance — always in uniform, always clean-cut, always ready for business.

She needed a bit of down time, and that's why she'd let Joker talk her into having a party.

But even with a closet full of clothes, Shepard had no idea what was party-worthy. "What about Ash?" she groaned. "What's she going to be wearing?"

"Why does that matter?"

Plopping backwards on the bed, Shepard mumbled, "Because she's a soldier, like me. If she's going to get all… all dressed up, then I know it's serious. And if she doesn't, then I don't, either."

Traynor joined her on the bed with a tired, "You're hopeless."

"Yep."

"And we're supposed to trust you to save the galaxy?" she asked with a little grin.

Unable to hold back a grin of her own, Shepard amended, "Well, me and my fantastic comm specialist."

"Flatterer."

"I try."


	5. Hate

**A/N: **Here's the first part of my little domestic-y group of drabbles, inspired by a prompt on tumblr.

As a side note, these don't fit with my personal canon for Kira, so there probably won't be any more like this. They're all post-war, and go together. I apologize for the first one - it's more of a headcanon info-dump.

* * *

"Well, here we are."

"Here we are." Leaning heavily on Traynor, Shepard took the first step into her new apartment. Technically, it was the same apartment that Anderson had given her during the war, just rebuilt after the damage to the Citadel. And for the most part, it looked exactly the same, with one major exception—the master bedroom was now on the ground floor. Everything had already been furnished—Traynor's doing, Shepard suspected—with sleek black and white furniture and a warm, honey-toned kitchen. "Food?" she asked, tilting her head towards the kitchen.

Traynor nodded. "It's all fully stocked. All your belongings were brought here, too, and there's a new set of armor and guns in the back room, courtesy of the Alliance."

"Good. Help me over to the couch?" Shepard began to move slowly towards the front room; even after months of therapy, she was still shaky on her feet. The blast that had destroyed the Reapers had done a fair amount of damage to her own body, breaking almost everything on her right side. That hadn't been the worst of it, though—she'd lost her left eye and right leg, and her right arm was now more machine than human.

They'd been able to fix her vision, giving Shepard a permanent visual implant that would account for things such as depth perception, and she'd recieved a permanent prosthetic leg below the knee. Her arm had been different; Shepard hadn't realized how bad the injury even was until they told her, since all the synthetic replacements were internal.

In fact, if there was anything the doctors hadn't been able to fix, it was the scars from her Cerberus implants. Everything else was almost as good as new; even the nightmares were beginning to fade with the therapy.

And she hated it.

Not that she was getting better, that she was healing, but the whole process she was having to go through, relying on others and always needing someone there at her side.

Kira Shepard wasn't the kind to leave her fate in the hands of others; she took risks and made choices and she alone took responsibility for them. More than once, she'd messed up and had to clean up her mess; sometimes it was bargaining for her life, and sometimes it was shooting a friend, but she always took responsibility.

So when Hackett told her about the widespread damage to the galaxy and the messy political scene that were a direct result of her actions, Shepard would've liked to march over to the Council and make a few demands before taking the galaxy into her own hands—again. But she'd been stuck in a hospital bed then, and by the time she was even able to walk with assistance, most of the problems had been worked out, and Hackett was insisting Shepard spend a few more months recuperating.  
She'd argued, of course, not because she had any desire to remain with the Alliance, but out of a feeling of responsibility. She had to do something to help.

Something more than sit awkwardly on a stiff couch, one leg splayed out to the side to keep her hip from protesting and the other beginning to ache where flesh joined with metal, while Traynor shuffled through the kitchen looking for food.

"Don't bother," Shepard finally called out to her. "We'll order out. Chinese, or something."

Traynor shut the door to the cabinet she'd been rummaging through and turned to Shepard with a tired smile. "You spent months complaining about that hospital food, and the first thing you want when you get out is order out Chinese?" she teased.

"Just—shut up." After a pause, she added, "And get over here."

"So I'm guessing the food can wait?"

"For now."

When Traynor sat next to Shepard, it was gentle, careful; something Shepard had noticed had become common. Everyone—Traynor included—was treating her like she was fragile. That didn't bother her; it was the fact that it was true, that she was relatively fragile for the moment, that bothered her the most.

All it took was one glance at Traynor—at the way her brow furrowed and her lips pressed into a tight line—for Shepard to realize that her frustration was showing. Determind not to add to Traynor's own worries, Shepard took one of her hands and gave it a gentle a little, Traynor returned the gesture; it had been the most affection that Shepard had been physically capable of giving while she was in the hospital, and since then it had transformed into a simple, silent declaration that she was fine, and that everything would turn out okay.

"Well," Traynor sighed, settling into a more comfortable position and letting her eyes wander around the apartment, "it isn't the white picket fence I had in mind, but it'll do."


	6. Injuries

**A/N: **This takes place after the previous drabble - maybe a year or so? It was originally supposed to be more light-hearted, but turned into Kira having a bit of a crisis due to her injuries.

* * *

"I'll be _fine_."

"Shepard." Traynor grabbed onto Shepard's arm, stopping her inevitable argument with a stern glare full of as much determination as she could muster.

Gritting her teeth to bite back a response, Shepard tugged her arm free and headed back for the bedroom, her attempt at defiance thwarted by her limping. "You're worried — I get it," she scoffed, tossing her rifle on the bed. "But you don't need to be. I'm fine."

But even as she spoke, Shepard had to grab onto the bedside table to help lower herself onto the bed, and once she was sitting, she had to reposition herself so the pain in her hip was at least _somewhat_ bearable. All it took was a single grimace to draw a pained sigh from Traynor.

"I'm not saying you can't go to the shooting range. I just… I just wish you wouldn't go _alone_."

"I can't keep asking people to travel halfway across the galaxy because I get _restless_," Shepard shot back.

Traynor threw up her hands with a frustrated groan and muttered something about not having _that_ argument again, then marched out of the room, leaving Shepard alone. She thought about following, or apologizing, or grabbing her rifle and limping to the shooting range; instead, she pushed herself back onto her feet and began to pace around the room, stubbornly ignoring the pain.

—-

It wasn't until the apartment VI alerted Shepard to a guest at the door that she remembered their plans for dinner.

To celebrate the end of the most rigorous part of Shepard's physical therapy, she and Traynor had invited a few of their old crewmates — those that were either close enough to make the trip or weren't caught up in politics or repairs — over to the apartment for the evening. Shepard had originally intended to use her new-found freedom to take a trip to the shooting range, but after her and Traynor's argument, she'd spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between restless pacing and irritated tinkering.

But when Ashley showed up, Shepard made a beeline for the door, leaning on every rail and table and chair on the way; there was no one in the galaxy she wanted to see more at that moment, because Ash _understood_. She had spent weeks in a hospital bed beside Shepard after they'd stopped Saren, and she'd broken almost as many bones as Shepard during the final attack on Earth. _She understood_.

At least, that's what Shepard had hoped. But as soon as the door opened, the smile dropped from Ash's face. Maybe it was the way Shepard was hunched over, or her white-knuckled grip on the table she was leaning on; for whatever reason, Ashley hesitated before offering a quiet _hello_.

With every new arrival, Shepard told herself it would be different, but Miranda and Garrus and Liara all gave her the same sad, concerned look that Traynor had perfected. Even Grunt seemed unsure how to react. When Joker arrived, his arm locked with EDI's and leaning slightly into her, Shepard lead them to the kitchen then disappeared into her bedroom. She stood hunched over her cluttered desk, because sitting hurt too much and laying down was too much effort.

The door slid open and closed, and Shepard knew without looking who it was. When Traynor placed a hand on her shoulder, it took everything Shepard had not to crumble right then and there; she turned and reached for Traynor, holding her close and burying her nose in her hair. Shepard managed a quiet, "I don't need help," her voice breaking before she could say more. Traynor remained silent, and Shepard gritted her teeth in frustration — not at Traynor, but at _herself_; there was _so much_she needed to say.

But how could she? How was she supposed to explain how_helpless_ she felt? How, in just minutes, she'd gone from the near-invincible Commander Shepard, the N7 sniper with flawless aim who could save the galaxy, to Kira, who spent nearly six months unable to use the bathroom without assistance. How she'd gone from taking down Reapers to having panic attacks at the _mention_ of one. How she'd gone from looking down her rifle's scope to seeing through a slightly blurry visual implant. How she'd gone from dashing into battle, cloaked and already taking aim, to unable to manage a few stairs.

How, _mentally_, she was still capable of saving the day, but_physically_, she couldn't even save the toast from burning if she walked off too far in the mornings.

Shepard wasn't much for talking, anyway, and this was something she knew she'd never be able to put into words, so she said the only thing she could. "I'm sorry."

There was silence, then a soft, "I know."

"And… and I do need help."

"I know."


	7. Mornings

**A/N: **And this is actually the one that started all the domestic ideas. It takes place several years after the end of the war.

I hope you've enjoyed this group of drabbles! Like I mentioned, none of these follow my personal canon for Kira Shepard, so there most likely won't be any more like this. Unless I get a prompt, of course.

Suggestions/criticisms/prompts welcome and loved!

* * *

Kira Shepard had always considered herself a morning person, but Traynor put her to shame.

By the time Kira was crawling out of bed, their bedroom smelled like Traynor's favorite soap and the latest report from the Alliance News Network could be heard from the main room. She would brush her teeth and wash her face and pin her bangs back out of her eyes, then slip into a house robe and make her way into the kitchen, where Traynor was waiting with coffee and, if she was lucky, breakfast.

"We're out of eggs," Traynor informed her as she shuffled into the kitchen, leaning heavily on her prostetic leg until she worked the stiffness out of her bad hip. She settled into one of the chairs and Traynor handed her a mug of coffee — black, and warm but not steaming, exactly like she liked it — and an energy bar. "I'll have to go shopping later, which means you get to do the laundry."

As she began to walk away, Shepard grabbed one of her hands and tugged her back, pulling her down for a kiss. Seated, Shepard was still almost as tall as Traynor; at 6'3, she normally towered over her. Before letting Traynor walk away, she reminded her, "I thought we were both going shopping."

"Oh! The party!" Groaning, Traynor snatched the shopping list from the counter and began searching for a pen. "I completely forgot. Yes, you're coming with me, but you still get to do laundry," she smirked, "unless you feel like cleaning."

"You just like the idea of Commander Shepard scrubbing your toilets."

"Not when I know what a horrid job she does."

"What can I say? I set the bar low." Shepard exhaled slowly as she stood, her hip protesting at the movement. Grabbing her coffee but leaving the energy bar, she slowly made her way to the main room and carefully lowered herself onto the couch, switching the channel as soon as she was seated. There wasn't anything good on this early, but if she was lucky, she could catch one of the old Turian war vids; those were her favorite, and it frustrated Traynor to no end. There was something captivating about the grainy quality, the stoic, humorless characters, and the (mostly) inaccurate portrayal of humans during the First Contact War era.

There was nothing like that on, though, so Shepard settled for a news report on the new Salarian-inspired regulations in Earth school systems, content to simply sip on her coffee and enjoy the peaceful morning.

Every now and then, Traynor would duck in front of her, or slip around the back of the couch; Shepard _hated_ cleaning, but she felt bad about leaving all the work for Traynor, even if she seemed to enjoy it and Shepard couldn't handle all the moving and bending required.

It wasn't long before Traynor joined her on the couch, plopping down with a tired sigh and resting her head on Shepard's shoulder. "You know, for as tidy as we kept the Normandy, our house is _awfully_ messy."

Shepard shrugged. "True, but here you're not picking up bits of old mods and thermal clips."

"Oh, the thermal clips were the worst!"

"See?"

With one of her little half-smiles, Traynor pointed out, "Yes, because dirty socks and hair pins are so much better."

"You'd be bored without me and my dirty socks," she shot back.

"You can keep your socks," Traynor sighed, "but things _would_ be less fun without you around." Still grinning, she tilted her face up for a kiss, and Shepard was all too happy to comply.


End file.
